Psalm 121
by thinkture
Summary: Five moments inspired by the verses in this psalm which is also included in the "Call the Midwife" album.


**Chummy**

_1 I lift up my eyes to the mountains—_  
_where does my help come from?_  
_2 My help comes from the Lord,_  
_the Maker of heaven and earth._

As soon as the door of her new quarters at Nonnatus House closed behind Nurse Jenny Lee, Camila Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne heaved a small sigh of relief. Her heart was still hammering in her throat after Sister Evangelina's very brusque introduction.

She had come quite a long way for this - such a circuitous journey that started from Rajasthan to Roedean, a Swiss finishing school, the Lucy Clayton Charm School and a stint at a cordon-bleu school. She thought that was that but apparently her mother thought she needed more polishing.

_Like I was a tarnished silver tea set from the atti_c, she thought a bit sadly.

Needlework school came next and after what seemed like ages of learning how to crochet, embroider, tat and quilt, she finally realized that perhaps her talents – if there were any at all – lay elsewhere.

She passed her nursing examination at the Nightingale School of Nursing by a mere whisker, as she had confirmed to Sister Evangelina earlier. But she had never been more sure of herself until now.

It felt right in her heart and soul, even if the uniform didn't.

Touching her lips softly to the small golden cross that hung on her neck, Chummy knew that she had come to the right place at last.

**Cynthia**

_3 He will not let your foot slip—_  
_he who watches over you will not slumber;_

In her dreams, she saw his small chubby face, the tiny fists still quite closed, the slick slippery coating of vernix on his forehead even as she wrapped him in a towel to be handed to his glowing mother.

His name echoed through her head, throughout her waking hours and even more so when she tried to sleep.

_Thomas. Thomas. Thomas Kelly. Baby Thomas Kelly. Thomas._

It was unbearable.

It was more difficult that this baby's death vacillated between the known and unknown. Had she really done everything possible to keep him alive? Had she really caused his death? For the first time, Cynthia questioned her own sanity.

But finally, there was resolution. It gave her the utmost relief to know that it was not her fault at all.

She had crept into the chapel after Dr. Turner had left with the post-mortem results and the nuns had finished None.

There were still echoes of the psalms in the chapel, she thought, but none of her earlier fears.

She said a quiet prayer of thanksgiving and one for Baby Thomas and his grieving parents, remembering his anguished mother's words.

_Keep him safe until I can._

**Sister Evangelina **

_4 indeed, he who watches over Israel_  
_will neither slumber nor sleep._

She should be sleeping, really. In an hour or two, they would have to get up for Lauds.

But Sister Evangelina wasn't stubborn for nothing. She could hardly sleep, knowing that her sister was gravely ill.

As quietly as she can, she carefully opens the door to Sister Monica Joan's bedroom. Even from there, she could hear the elderly nun's labored breathing.

With a gentleness rarely seen by the others, she carefully tucks the coverlet around Sister Monica Joan's frail frame, refills the glass of water by her bedside and takes her pulse with the utmost care.

Knowing that medicine need not be administered for a few more hours, she settles herself into the spare chair.

She doesn't need her prayer book nor a light.

As she waits for dawn to break, she whispers her most fervent prayers to God for Sister Monica Joan's life, her tears falling on her cheeks.

_He who watched over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep._

Awakened later by a hand on her shoulder, it takes her a few moments to fully open her eyes. When she finally does, she sees Sister Julienne's face from across the bed, a small, relieved smile on her face.

The rays of the slowly rising sun show Sister Monica Joan's hand clasping her own on the counterpane, her blue eyes bright with life.

**Sister Bernadette**

_5 The Lord watches over you—_  
_the Lord is your shade at your right hand;_  
_6 the sun will not harm you by day,_  
_nor the moon by night._

It's been months since she's had any proper sleep. The turmoil in her mind and heart and now the shadow of her tuberculosis diagnosis has made even the shadows darker and stronger.

She misses her cell at Nonnatus House. Certainly, this one at the sanatorium is comparatively larger, and by her simple standards, luxurious even. But she misses the simplicity of her old room; the soft regular patter of feet by the nuns that told her it was time for prayers, mixed with the rushed clatter of the midwives' sturdy shoes as they rushed about.

She misses the gentle smile from Sister Julienne and Sister Monica Joan when they pass by her door on the way to Lauds.

But she has to admit, right now, more than her Sisters, she misses _him_.

She couldn't bring herself to tell him goodbye when he handed to her the small suitcase of her belongings. She hadn't known what to say, how to say it, and why she even should.

She turns on the light and fetches her Bible from her nightstand.

An envelope falls out from the pages and she hurried tucks it back, the cramped handwritten address on the back suddenly making tears well up in her eyes.

She thumbs to a well-worn page, one that she knows by heart and her lips move in prayer and supplication.

_My Lord watches over me…_

**The sisters and midwives at Nonnatus House**

_7 The Lord will keep you from all harm—_  
_he will watch over your life;_

_8 the Lord will watch over your coming and going_  
_both now and forevermore._

Trixie knitted as if her life depended on it. Just earlier in the day, she had complained to Jenny Lee about having to take up the job of making the blanket squares originally intended for Sister Monica Joan to keep the elderly nun occupied.

"Can't imagine who would want such a repellent thing in any case," she said with a huff.

And now here she was, needle in hand, keeping vigil with the nuns as well as Cynthia and Jenny.

What was once a task dismissed as trivial, as a useless token for idleness now took on new meaning, each thread woven with a mixture of fear and despair, hope and supplication. With each square attached, their greatest fear being that it might serve no purpose but a last loving shroud for their friend.

The nuns were supposed to be abed, the Great Silence should have imposed its veil of quiet upon the older women. And yet here they were together, keeping vigil for a colleague, a friend, a sister.

The call from the hospital of Chummy's second haemorrhage had given them an all-too-real jolt that they might lose her, and possibly the baby as well.

Despite Sister Julienne's gentle persuasion of Sister Monica Joan to go to bed, she was rebuffed with a haughty lift from that chin and those imperious eyes.

"I am needed here, Sister," she says. "We all need to be."

And to that, Sister Evangelina could only add a quiet "We all need her" while furtively wiping at her eyes with a worn handkerchief.

They continue their vigil through the night.

_Ora et labora in caritate_

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I'd appreciate any reviews. Thank you. :)


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